This morning of the small snow I count the blessings, the leak in the faucet which makes of the sink time, the drop of the water on water.

Atlantis will rise again.

We all want what's been suddenly disallowed.

You can read everybody. It's not even interesting to tell the truth because to some extent it's false.

A poem is energy transferred from where the poet got it (he will have some several causations), by way of the poem itself to, all the way over to, the reader.

I was playing catch with the European audience.

All that matters is that the thing be the thing of the thing.